Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, by William Blake, Part VIII

Every day on Daily Readers' Book Club we offer an article length section of a book until that book is done. We are currently reading William Blake's Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience. This book will have 8 parts.

A LITTLE BOY LOST

‘Nought loves another as itself,Nor venerates another so,
Nor is it possible to thoughtA greater than itself to know.

‘And, father, how can I love youOr any of my brothers more?
I love you like the little birdThat picks up crumbs around the door.’

The Priest sat by and heard the child;In trembling zeal he seized his hair,
He led him by his little coat,And all admired his priestly care.

And standing on the altar high,‘Lo, what a fiend is here!’ said he:
‘One who sets reason up for judgeOf our most holy mystery.’

The weeping child could not be heard,The weeping parents wept in vain:
They stripped him to his little shirt,And bound him in an iron chain,

And burned him in a holy placeWhere many had been burned before;
The weeping parents wept in vain.Are such things done on Albion’s shore?

A LITTLE GIRL LOST

Children of the future age,
Reading this indignant page,
Know that in a former time
Love, sweet love, was thought a crime.

In the age of gold,
Free from winter’s cold,
Youth and maiden bright,
To the holy light,
Naked in the sunny beams delight.

Once a youthful pair,
Filled with softest care,
Met in garden bright
Where the holy light
Had just removed the curtains of the night.

There, in rising day,
On the grass they play;
Parents were afar,
Strangers came not near,
And the maiden soon forgot her fear.

Tired with kisses sweet,
They agree to meet
When the silent sleep
Waves o’er heaven’s deep,
And the weary tired wanderers weep.

To her father white
Came the maiden bright;
But his loving look,
Like the holy book,
All her tender limbs with terror shook.

Ona, pale and weak,
To thy father speak!
O the trembling fear!
O the dismal care
That shakes the blossoms of my hoary hair!’

A DIVINE IMAGE

Cruelty has a human heart,And Jealousy a human face;
Terror the human form divine,And Secrecy the human dress.

The human dress is forgèd iron,The human form a fiery forge,
The human face a furnace sealed,The human heart its hungry gorge.

Didst close my tongue in senseless clay,
And me to mortal life betray.
The death of Jesus set me free:
Then what have I to do with thee?

THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD

Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel—they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.